Paths

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Had the early snow falling on northern Arizona come a couple of days later, had I bowed to pressure from my professors regarding upcoming mid-terms, had it not been elk season, life today would most certainly be very different.

Friday 21 October 1977, well before dawn I got out of bed, dressed quietly and gathered my boots and pack. My roommate might or might not have woken and said goodbye. Under buzzing sodium-vapor lamps in the parking lot I threw my gear in the back of the car and headed for Santa Fe, New Mexico, 520 miles away.

I was twenty years old and a student at Arizona State University in Tempe. My friend Mark lived in Dallas, Texas at the time. We decided to converge in Santa Fe to backpack into the Pecos Wilderness over the long Veteran’s Day weekend. Northern New Mexico, and the southern tail of the Rocky Mountains were full of mystery and attraction. The weekend would be pivotal, as a number of experiences would set the dream in my mind that some day I would return to the region to live.

Mark and I met at a motel. Over the many years I’ve now lived in Santa Fe of the remaining older motels in town, I think it was the Cottonwood Court. An image of Mark’s car parked beside mine in the small lot sticks in my mind. There’s something about the place which fits the picture.

Late Friday afternoon we explored Santa Fe. The silver autumnal light tarnished into dusk, the crystal clear sky slipped from blue to green to dusky orange, and the temperature fell like a stone. Heavy adobe structures lined the streets, the spicy smoke from piñon fires seeped over high parapets, and around corners. We found the plaza, where Native Americans sat under the portal of The Palace of The Governors selling their wares as they do today. Seeing them, and the sights and sounds and smells, this white skinned red haired boy from New Hampshire felt like he was on another planet. We stopped at Base Camp, a store specializing in hiking and backpacking gear to purchase topo maps. The fellow we spoke with steered us away from the Pecos – it was elk hunting season – and to Bandelier National Monument where hunting was not allowed.

As Mark and I left the store, there may have been a young woman across the street, with her friends going into Morningbird, a chic woman’s clothing and shoe shop. She would have been sixteen, raven haired and petite. We may have taken extra notice, paused for just a second… and then were back to our explorations.

The next evening, Mark and I were at Bandelier, having hiked Frijoles Canyon to the Rio Grande, and established our first camp site on a grassy flood plain by the river. Around ten o’clock I got out of the tent to pee. And there were the stars like I had never seen them before, the dense blaze of the Milky Way and beyond. It took my breath away. I stood and shivered, awestruck. Back on the trail the next day, high on a mesa top I experienced total silence for the first time in my life. The beating of my heart filled the void. It rattled me. We hiked and camped in the backcountry for three days. New Mexico had set itself into me. I would come back, and come back to stay.

R. and I were having breakfast recently and talking about this. She grew up in Santa Fe, and all those years ago our paths came very close, a matter of a mile or two or maybe a few feet. In the ensuing thirty three years much has happened, we’ve taken many turns along the way. We cross paths with a lot of people in the course of our lives and of them, a few play significant parts. Life’s circumstances lead up to these meetings, others slip away and here we are; it is all very mysterious.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Jennie@WedgwoodTulsa

A Foundation For Peace

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

This is like making a pie crust - something so simple many of us find it difficult. With pie crusts I do pretty well, but with this essay I’ve been working on it for a week and still…

That this character Jesus, whose birthday many of us are about to celebrate is known as “The Prince of Peace,” has me thinking about why something so desirable as peace eludes us. We preach and make speeches for peace, we hope and pray for it, we display stickers and flags about it. These actions are all very glamorous and inspiring. But what we apparently are missing, the key, to building a solid foundation for peace and hence having it is accomplished by doing it.

It starts with forgiveness and acceptance of ourselves and then, others. This can be a surprisingly tall order, but once there we can make thoughtful choices to be peaceful, even in the face of conflict and hostility. The journey toward living this way is filled with twists and turns, but with care and diligence, with recognizing successes however small, and forgiving failures however large peacefulness comes naturally… or at least for me, it does most of the time. It is a long road well worth taking.

Each of us is equipped with love and fear and hence the capacity to act in peace or hostility. We have the power to choose the way we act, and the world we create depends on our choices. Simply, quietly and moment by moment.

You and I can be a Prince or Princess of Peace. Everything we need is within us.

Gordon Bunker

Just Like Kids

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The three of us, E., R. and myself, stood at the counter with our steaming cups of spiked hot chocolate. We furtively glanced at each other and giggled.

On our hike earlier in the day, to combat the cold and wind and snow we got talking about warm things. “Chicken soup!” “A fire in the fire place and a glass of red wine!” “Pumpkin pie with brandy in it! …forget the pie and just go for the brandy!” “Hot chocolate!” The shared good humor helped as we climbed the mesa high over the Chama River.

Driving home, O. was at the helm, I was riding shotgun and E. and R. were huddled in the back seat. It was getting dark, we were tired and hungry and chilled. The Subaru’s heat roasted us in the front but left those in the back wanting. As the general store in Abiquiu approached we decided to make a pit stop and get something hot to drink. The store is the genuine article with frying pans, fishing tackle, winter hats, bird seed, groceries, nuts and bolts and snacks and beverages. Behind the cashier’s counter a selection of small bottles of hard liquor glimmers in the hard light.

We made use of the rather grim facilities. E. found her way to the hot chocolate maker. R. and I followed suit. In short order we had the little machine running for all it’s worth. Place the cup like so and push and hold the green button. With a reassuring whir from deep within, foamy hot chocolate shot from the spout. We turned to the adjacent counter to get tops for the cups and E. produced a little paper bag. It had a golden bottle top protruding from it, and with a grin she said, “I got some rum… think it’ll be good in the hot chocolate?” There was a general consensus this was worth a try, so R. and I each gave her a couple dollars.

E. asked, “Think we ought to do this in the car or…?”

I looked around and shrugged my shoulders. We were out of the cashier’s view and it was otherwise quiet. “I don’t think it will be a problem,” I said. So we cracked the bottle and each of us poured a shot into our hot chocolates; the bottle got away from R. and whether she intended to or not, she splashed a most generous dollop into her cup. I handed out wooden stirring sticks. “Keep these in case we get stranded, we can make a fire.” And so we partners in crime sipped our hot chocolates and knew we were being naughty. The rum was a tasty addition.

Being the designated driver, O. abstained. Thank you O. As she chauffeured us back to Santa Fe we three slipped into a happy mellow buzz. It was all more fun than I’ve had in a long time.

Gordon Bunker

A Few Words With Dave

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“Look at me,” I said in a soft tone. The woman slowly turned her face and our eyes met. I’d overheard her speaking earlier to another member of the group, that she was afraid of heights. From her body language and expression it was plain to see this was true.

Looking into her eyes, I smiled and said, “you’re doing fine.” She smiled back and her shoulders relaxed just a little bit. “Now face the rock, ease into your steps… piece of cake!” I said. She skirted around the overhang and onto the slope where I was standing and hopped down to where others were waiting.

We had made it to the top of the mesa, high over the Chama River and were negotiating our way down the steep rock escarpment. Wind howled and the leading edge of a snow squall was bearing down on us. The hikers, nineteen of us, were of mixed experience and abilities. For some the hike and especially being on steep rock in mixed winter conditions was pushing their envelope. Dave, the hike leader, had identified a few of us who were comfortable with it all and asked us to help those less so with getting down. I was one of those people.

There’s something very special about helping others approach and expand on their limits and it’s wonderful to see the change it brings. Uncertainty and fear turn into confidence and joy. Dave and I were the last two to leave the rock and I spoke to him about this.

He smiled and said, “this group is based on loving and helping one another. Anyone can say yes or no, anyone can stop at any time and it’s ok. Everyone knows this. It’s very powerful and works because of love.”

Gordon Bunker

The Old Crow

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On my regular hikes to the mailbox I am constantly on the lookout for various flotsam and jetsam, the shinier the better. It’s also a karmic thing. For a while nails and screws were frequently getting in the tires of my car so I figure if I’m picking up these nasty puncturing bits, a) there will be fewer around for anyone including me to get into trouble with, and b) if there is one in the way, somehow it and my tires will avoid each other. I hope.

The shiny things call out but silently. If they could only tell their stories. The lonely spark plug, a platinum type with dual electrodes, made in Germany and still functional. What car did it come from and how many sparks did it spark to what destinations? Maybe it helped take a family to Carlsbad Caverns, or a mom to the store for milk and a jar of peanut butter. And it’s a part not likely to pop out of an engine on it’s own, so how and why did it end up on the road?

Three lug nuts. Not one, or five, but three. The lever tool with the notched cam shaped end, for the life of me I can’t figure out what it’s used for.

My prize is a set of measuring spoons. It was a crisp and sunny winter day and I had walked a good mile beyond the mail boxes for the exercise. Returning, the roadside embankment with a southern exposure was free of snow. Some highly reflective thing, an intense little glint peeping out from the weeds caught my attention. I circled around. The cool white color of stainless steel said “high quality” to the old crow. I stopped and peered in, and there was a measuring spoon. I hopped over the ditch and picked it up, and scattered around was another, and another… and the little snap ring, opened, to hold them together.

It’s just not every day a set of high quality measuring spoons finds it’s way to the side of the road. Very odd. Maybe someone set them on the roof of the car on the way to cooking class?... or they were part of a drug dealer’s tool kit and got jettisoned in the heat of a chase by the law?

Scraping off most of the dirt and feeling quite pleased with my booty, I slipped them into my pocket. Back at the house, I gave them a good washing and put them into service. Every time I look at them I wonder.

Gordon Bunker

The Greatest Invention Of All Time

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We have the wheel, the airfoil, penicillin and the binder clip. Uncle Lewi made a case for the movable type printing press, however that seems to be fading into the murk right next to the stylus and clay tablet. From my perspective, the top of the heap is dominated by domestic hot water. Everything else withers in comparison.

This morning at sun rise it was calm and the outside temperature hovered around 12 degrees Fahrenheit. I keep the heat in the bedroom and bathroom turned down as I’ve always liked sleeping in a cold room with lots of blankets on the bed, and disliked paying for big volumes of propane. However, the business of getting in and out of bed or the shower becomes an intense aerobic workout. Morning sunshine pours into the bedroom and bathroom, which helps a lot. I leap out of bed and dash into the bathroom and turn on the water. I stand naked in the sunlight. This is one of the advantages to living in the boonies. When the water gets hot I get in the shower and wow, does that ever feel good!

Oooo… Hot water! Ahh… Steam! I stretch and creak and groan and let it beat on my back. The heat soaks in. Without question, the greatest invention of all time.

Gordon Bunker

Sounds

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Every morning I head out to the bird bath to top it off with a kettle full of water, and a bird will sing out from one particular juniper to the south. It’s the same song every time, a clear lilting call streaming out over the landscape. I wonder if this bird is the town crier, “Hear ye, hear ye, drink and bathe!” For me, the song is as much a part of my coming back to life in the morning as that first sip of hot tea.

In northern New Mexico, before getting into high alpine country we have great stands of ponderosa pine. These trees, tall straight boles are crowned with branches bearing long shiny needles. Water being scarce, the forest floor is open and the trees grow far enough apart so sunlight shines through. Hiking in one of these stands on a windy day there is the sound of air wrapping itself around all those needles as through a sieve. It is different than the sound through piñon, spruce or fir. I stand and close my eyes and wonder what spirits are this wind, this sound.

Sitting in the bleachers at a race track with motorcycles flying past, again, I have my eyes closed. To be a spectator, must one watch? So I don’t know what I am, but I do know the sounds of some motorcycles, just the sounds, are a thrill to hear. Tingles go up and down my spine. Anything with a Ducati nameplate will do this for me. I once owned a Ducati. Oh yeah, the sounds that motorcycle made.

I live alone out in the boonies and it is quiet. Sometimes it is more quiet than what’s good for me. I was at R.’s house loitering in the living room while she was going around getting her boots and pack together. We were going for a hike. There was great comfort listening to the sounds she made in the house.

Gordon Bunker

Ink

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

There’s nothing like ink on paper.

The big news is my first literary essay to be published in print “Bluebird Feathers,” will appear in the winter 2010 issue of Pilgrimage, a literary quarterly from Pueblo, Colorado.

A couple of years ago my writing was about things automotive and getting published regularly in Drive and Roundel magazines. Then Drive, my big customer, went belly up. While it was great writing for the magazine, it’s demise pushed me out of familiar territory; I kicked and screamed about it for a while until I figured out it was a good thing. Sorry Jay and Satch (my editors), but cars I discovered just aren’t that interesting.

Ok, the V12 BMW 850 CSi was interesting. At full song I admit, it was very interesting.

Nonetheless I encourage you to visit Pilgrimage Press’s web site at www.pilgrimagepress.org and subscribe. It’s a great magazine, one of the few I read cover to cover. Many thanks.

Gordon Bunker